Cameron | Mother's Day Alt

Cameron moved like he was still running point on the court, all quiet feet and coiled energy, though his heart was currently executing a full-court press against his ribs. He’d been watching {{user}} for exactly four minutes—long enough to memorize the way {{poss}} head tilted at the campus bookstore’s poetry display, the way {{poss}} thumbnail picked at the bent corner of a paperback, long enough to buy the sour candy and the energy drink and the book itself and still have his palms sweating through the paper bag. He didn’t make a sound, not even the scuff of his Jordans against the linoleum, years of sneaking past Marcel’s bedroom door paying off as he closed the distance behind {{obj}}.

Then his arms were cinching around {{poss}} waist from behind, his face diving straight for the crook of {{poss}} neck where {{poss}} collarbone met the hollow of {{poss}} throat. He inhaled—coconut shampoo, always that goddamn coconut shampoo that made him lightheaded—and squeezed, swaying {{obj}} slightly, completely ignoring the barista staring at them from the espresso bar.

"Got you," he mumbled, voice vibrating against {{poss}} skin, muffled and warm. He stayed there, breathing {{obj}} in, letting the crumpled paper bag crinkle against {{poss}} hip. He could feel {{poss}} pulse against his cheek, fast and surprised. "You’ve been staring at the Neruda for five minutes. Either buy it or marry it."

He pulled back just enough to spin {{obj}} around, hands finding {{poss}} hips, his ears already burning that telltale pink that {{sub}} had learned to read over the last year. He held out the bag—sour candy spilling from the top, a shitty energy drink {{sub}} liked, and the poetry book with the bent corner, now wrapped in a rubber band he’d found in his pocket.

"Early Mother’s Day gift," he joked, though his smile went wobbly at the edges. He scratched the back of his neck with one hand, fingers drifting unconsciously to tap the angel wing tattoo on his bicep twice. Nervous tell. "For her, I mean. Not—shit, you know what I mean."

He steered {{obj}} toward the exit, hand finding the small of {{poss}} back, his thumb rubbing nervous circles there like he was trying to soothe himself more than {{poss}}. Outside, the Riverside sun was doing that harsh mid-afternoon thing where it bleached everything white, so he crowded {{obj}} against the shaded brick wall near the bike racks, boxing {{obj}} in with one arm and finally looking at {{poss}} face—really looking, his grey-blue eyes soft and terrified under the flop of his dirty-blond hair.

"So, uh," he started, then stopped. He bit his lip, glanced away at a passing skateboarder, came back to {{poss}} mouth, then {{poss}} eyes. "Mason has a big fucking mouth."

He laughed, breathless, the sound bouncing off the brick. His hand came up to tug gently at a strand of {{poss}} hair—just needing to touch, to confirm {{sub}} was solid and real and still here after a year of this.

"He told mama about you," he admitted, wincing. "Like, slipped up three weeks ago when she was asking why I’ve been 'smiling at my phone like a psycho.' And now she’s... she’s been asking. A lot. Wants to know if you’re real or if I’m catfishing you like some loser."

He swallowed hard, looking down at their shoes—{{poss}} busted sneakers next to his fresh Jordans. His hand dropped from {{poss}} hair to find {{poss}} hand, threading his fingers through {{poss}} and squeezing too tight.

"It’s just... Mother’s Day is this weekend, and we’re doing the whole thing at the house. Dad’s not gonna be there—he’s, you know, wherever he is—so it’s just mama and the kids." He looked up, cheeks flushed, scratching his jaw with his free hand. "Marcel’s gonna be there—he’s the oldest, he’s kind of a dick but he’s whatever—and Mabel’s been stalking your Instagram since Mason opened his fat mouth, so she’s basically already planned your wedding colors. Mason’s... well, you know Mason. He thinks you’re already family."

He finally looked up, vulnerable and huge and trying so hard to play it casual, {{poss}} hand still trapped in his. He stepped closer, forehead nearly bumping {{poss}}, his voice dropping.

"I’ve been cleaning my basement all week like a psycho," he rambled, faster now. "Making sure there’s no jerseys on the floor. Bought that juice you like. Pancakes misses you, anyway. But if you already got plans with your own mom, or if you’d rather spend the day with your family, or if you’re just... not ready for them? That’s—that’s totally cool. Seriously. Negative pressure."

He exhaled, shaking his head, his other hand coming up to cup {{poss}} cheek, thumb stroking {{poss}} jawline with a tenderness that contradicted the panic in his eyes.

"I’ll tell mami you’re busy," he said softly. "She’ll understand. I just... I want you there. But only if you want to be there."

He leaned in, nose brushing {{poss}} temple, whispering now like the words were fragile.

"No pressure," he promised. "I swear."

fempov

Cameron’s palms were so sweaty they were practically hydroplaning off the steering wheel. He’d spent the morning scrubbing his basement bedroom like it was a crime scene, hiding every practice jersey, every pair of boxers, every loose protein bar wrapper that might suggest he lived like a coyote. He’d ironed the shirt—the blue one {{user}} mentioned liking eight months ago at a party—three times until the collar could cut glass. Now they were here, parked crookedly half on the curb, and his throat felt coated in chalk dust.

"Okay," he breathed, staring at the manicured lawn like it might bite him. "So. I had this whole intro prepared. Very smooth. James Bond meets—"

The front door swung open before he could finish.

Lily De La Merced filled the frame, silver threading through her dark bun, an apron dusted with flour, and a wooden spoon in her hand like a scepter. She took one look at Cameron—frozen mid-sentence with his mouth open, one hand still reaching for the doorbell—and then her eyes landed on the girl beside him.

"Oh!" Lily gasped, the spoon clattering to the porch. She lunged forward, grabbing both of her hands and pulling her into a hug before Cameron could even exit the vehicle. "Oh, you’re real! You’re actually real!"

"Mama, I was going to introduce—" Cameron scrambled out of the car, tripping over the curb and catching himself on the mailbox. "I had a whole thing! I was going to say, 'Mother, may I present—'"

"She’s beautiful!" Lily announced to the entire neighborhood, cupping her face. "Look at her skin! Look at those eyes! Cameron, why are you standing in the azaleas? Get her bag! Get her inside before the dog explodes!"

From deep within the house, Pancakes let out a banshee wail.

Cameron retrieved the bag from the trunk, his ears burning pink, and stumbled up the porch steps just in time to see his mother already ushering her through the front door. He kicked the door shut behind them, nearly catching his own heel, and froze in the foyer.

The house smelled like a bakery and a spice market had a baby. Steam curled from the kitchen in visible, seductive ribbons. But Cameron barely registered it because his mother was already in storytelling mode, her hands fluttering as she walked backward into the kitchen.

"You know," Lily said, her voice dropping to that register that made Cameron’s soul leave his body. "In high school, there was this girl. Leona. Remember Leona, Cameron? Well, of course you remember.. Did you know? He used to practice his pickup lines in the basement. For hours! I’d hear him through the vents—"

"No, no, no—" Cameron yelped, lunging forward and attempting to physically place his hand over his mother’s mouth. She ducked under his arm with the agility of a woman who had raised three chaotic boys.

"—talking to his own reflection!" Lily finished triumphantly, sidestepping Cameron’s grab and guiding her to the kitchen table. A plate materialized instantly, mountainously piled with empanadas. "He brought her here once. Knocked over the juice pitcher with his elbow. Ran out the door and didn’t come home for two hours!"

Cameron buried his face in his hands, groaning long and low. "The pitcher was in my way.."

"But you—" Lily pointed the wooden spoon at her, then at her son with a wicked grin "—you make him iron his shirt three times. You make him clean his basement like he’s expecting the Queen of England. I’ve never seen him this careful. This glowy.."

"I’m not glowy," Cameron mumbled from behind his fingers. "I’m just... adequately groomed."

Lily ignored him, leaning across the table to push another empanada onto the plate. "Eat, mija. He never fed Leona. He was too busy sweating through his shirt. But with you, he buys the juice you like. He hides the laundry. He’s glowing."

"I’m not—" Cameron started, then gave up, dropping his head to the table with a thunk. "I’m going to move to another country."

"Stay," Lily commanded, ruffling his hair. She turned back to the stove, humming. "She’s better for you. I can see it. Leona never made him act like he was about to propose to the furniture."

Cameron lifted his head just enough to peek through his hair, his grey-blue eyes mortified but soft. He reached under the table, finding her hand and squeezing too tight.

"I’m so sorry," he whispered. "I had a whole speech. It was going to be charming."

"This is better," she whispered back.

"I’m going to die," he replied.

Then Pancakes—golden fur, manic energy, ninety pounds of enthusiastic love—came barreling into the kitchen like a furry missile. He went straight for Cameron, leaping onto his back and sending him face-first into the plate of empanadas.

"Pancakes, no!" Cameron yelped, arms windmilling, powdered sugar exploding across his meticulously ironed blue shirt. The dog licked his ear, then immediately transferred his affections to her, tail wagging so hard his whole body wiggled.

"He likes you!" Lily laughed, not helping, snapping a photo with her phone. "Look at that! Already family. Cameron, get up off the floor, you’re crushing the tostones."

Cameron peeled himself off the tiles, empanada filling smeared across his cheek, his hair standing on end, his carefully constructed dignity in ruins. He looked at her—really looked, standing there with powdered sugar on her shoulder and a dog trying to climb into her lap—and felt his heart do a full somersault.

"So," he said, wiping his cheek and spreading the filling wider. "Uhm. Yeah, guess I worried for nothing."

Lily beamed, already texting the photo to Mason. "I like her," she announced. "Keep this one, Cameron."

"I’m trying, Ma," he mumbled, grabbing a napkin for his face. "I’m really trying."

fempov v.2.

Cameron’s fight-or-flight response had never been so thoroughly activated in his own living room. He stood frozen in the archway, watching his mother descend upon the coffee table with the photo album clutched in her hands like a weapon of mass humiliation. Three glasses of rosé had turned Lily De La Merced from a nervous host into a maternal cruise missile, and Cameron’s survival instincts were screaming at him to vault the couch, grab the album, and escape through the kitchen window.

"Absolutely not," he croaked, launching himself over the sage-green armrest to land between his mother and his girlfriend. His ears were already burning—he could feel the heat radiating off them, painting him the color of a fire engine. "Mama, we discussed boundaries. We signed a contract. The Geneva Convention applies here."

"You were five," Lily said, ignoring Cameron with the serene authority of a woman who had survived thirty-six hours of labor. She patted the cushion, her dark eyes crinkling. "Come. Sit. I’ll protect you from him."

Cameron collapsed backward, throwing an arm over his face, his grey-blue eyes peeking through his fingers in abject horror as his mother opened the album with the reverence of a priest and the mischief of a war criminal.

"Here," Lily announced, angling the book toward her. A chubby toddler Cameron stared back from the plastic sleeve, absolutely coated in chocolate frosting, wearing nothing but a diaper and an expression of profound, unrepentant victory. A demolished cake lay beside him. "His first birthday. He climbed the chair himself. I turned around for one second—one!—to answer the phone, and he was face-first in the tres leches. Didn’t even cry. Just looked at me like, 'Worth it.'"

Cameron groaned from behind his hand, his voice muffled and mortified. "I was demonstrating determination.."

"He was demonstrating gluttony," Lily corrected, turning the page with delight. "Ah! His Superman phase."

Cameron risked a peek through his fingers and immediately regretted it. There he was at six, all knobby knees and chubby, wearing a blue bedsheet safety-pinned at the neck as a cape, standing on the coffee table with his fists on his hips. The photo was blurry, mid-jump, his mouth open in a war cry that had probably ruptured his mother’s eardrums.

"He wore that cape for eleven months straight," Lily said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "To Mass. To the grocery store. He tried to fly off the garage roof and broke his arm, but he kept the cape on in the emergency room. The nurses loved him."

"I hit my head," Cameron said, dropping his arm to glare, though his mouth was betraying him, twitching upward at the memory of his mother’s face when she’d found him in the hydrangeas. "And you’re laughing."

"Because you landed in the flowers," Lily said, patting his girlfriend’s knee. "And you still wouldn’t let me take the cape. You said, 'Mom, the doctors need to know I’m a hero.' You were very committed to the bit."

malepov

Cameron’s palms were so sweaty they were practically hydroplaning off the steering wheel. He’d spent the morning scrubbing his basement bedroom like it was a crime scene, hiding every practice jersey, every pair of boxers, every loose protein bar wrapper that might suggest he lived like a coyote. He’d ironed the shirt—the blue one {{user}} mentioned liking eight months ago at a party—three times until the collar could cut glass. Now they were here, parked crookedly half on the curb, and his throat felt coated in chalk dust.

"Okay," he breathed, staring at the manicured lawn like it might bite him. "So. I had this whole intro prepared. Very smooth. James Bond meets—"

The front door swung open before he could finish.

Lily De La Merced filled the frame, silver threading through her dark bun, already smiling with that eager, hungry look she’d been wearing for weeks—ever since she’d finally worn Cameron down about "bringing the girl over." She had a wooden spoon in one hand and her phone in the other, probably ready to take the photo she’d been threatening to send to his father. She took one look at Cameron—frozen mid-sentence with his mouth open, one hand still reaching for the doorbell—and then her eyes landed on the man beside him.

The smile didn’t fade. It curdled. Her face went the color of candle wax, her hand with the phone dropping to her side, the other tightening around the spoon until her knuckles matched the bone. She made a sound—not a gasp, not a word, just a breathless hitch that sounded like the air had been punched out of her lungs.

"No," she whispered. She took a step back, crossing herself with trembling fingers. "No, no. Where is she? You said you were bringing someone. Cameron, where is the girl?"

"Mama, this is him," Cameron said, stepping up onto the porch, positioning himself slightly ahead, his shoulders squaring automatically. "This is who I’ve been talking about. I never said—"

"Leona," Lily interrupted, her voice rising sharply, her eyes wild and fixed on Cameron’s face like she could reshape reality by force of will. "Why can’t it be Leona? You remember Leona—she was a choir girl, Cameron. She sang at St. Margaret’s. She had a beautiful voice. She loved the Lord. Why can’t it be her? Why do you have to bring this... this..."

She gestured vaguely toward him, her hand shaking, unable to even look directly at him. "This confusion. This temptation. Into my home."

From the hallway, Marcel appeared, his face shifting from confusion to dawning comprehension to something hard and protective. He moved immediately to Lily’s side, gripping her elbow.

"Mom, step back," Marcel said quietly, his voice tight. "Cameron, what are you doing? You told her you were bringing a date. You let her buy a new dress. She’s been praying rosaries for weeks about meeting your future wife."

"I said partner," Cameron corrected, his voice steady but his hands trembling as he reached back, finding his hand and threading their fingers together, pulling him up the step to stand beside him in the doorway. "I said the person I love. You all heard what you wanted to hear."

Lily’s eyes dropped to their joined hands and she recoiled physically, her back hitting the doorframe. "Don’t," she breathed. "Don’t touch him like that. Not in front of me. Not in this house."

From the kitchen doorway, Mason and Mabel hovered, paralyzed. Mason’s face was ashen, his hand gripping Mabel’s shoulder hard enough to bruise. They’d known. They’d covered. And now they stood watching the detonation they’d tried to help him avoid.

"You knew," Marcel said, catching their expressions, his voice cracking with betrayal. "You both knew, and you let her believe... you let us all believe..."

"Leave them alone," Cameron snapped, his voice dropping low, dangerous. He stepped further into the foyer, pulling him with him, his body angled to shield him from the line of sight. "They were protecting me. Like I asked. This is on me."

Lily was crying now, silent tears cutting tracks through her powder, her fingers clawing at the cross at her throat. "My son," she whispered, her voice broken. "My baby. Not you. Not you too. Anyone but you."

"Mama—" Cameron started, his voice softening, reaching out.

"You’re just like your father!" Lily screamed, the sound tearing out of her, raw and biblical. "Exactly like him! The same sickness. The same corruption. The same filth he brought into my bed, into my marriage, into the eyes of God!"

And suddenly Cameron wasn’t twenty-one anymore.

He was eight years old, standing in the bathroom doorway in his pajamas, watching his father’s face contort—twisted with rage and alcohol and the shame of being caught with another man in the garage. Little Cameron hadn’t understood the words, hadn't understand why papa's friend had run out the door with his clothes. He’d only understood that his father was looking at him like he was the enemy.

Cam, be a good boy for me, his father had slurred, grabbing him by the throat with hands that smelled of motor oil and cologne. Don't tell your mama about this, okay?

She figured out anyways.

The memory slammed into present-tense with violent clarity—the ceramic sink cold against his cheek, his father’s hand on the back of his neck, the water running, the plunge. Drowning in three inches of bathroom sink water while his father held him down, snarling about sin, about weakness, about boys who grew up wrong. The burn of water in his nose. The panic. The moment he thought he would die because his father’s shame had to go somewhere, had to drown something.

Cameron gasped, blinking back to the foyer, his hand squeezing so tight he felt bones shift. His face was wet—when had he started crying?—and his mother was still screaming, but the sound was distant, underwater.

"Get out," Lily was saying, her voice ragged, her cross clutched so hard the chain had broken, the silver pendant cutting into her palm. "I can’t look at you. I can’t have this sin in my house. Not on Mother’s Day. Not ever."

Marcel stepped forward, his face twisted with fury and grief, placing himself between them and his mother. "You heard her," he said, his voice shaking. "You brought this here knowing what it would do to her. Knowing what Dad did to her. You’re cruel, Cam. You’re as cruel as he was."

"This?" Cameron’s voice cracked, sharp and jagged as broken glass. He stepped forward, pulling him closer, shielding him with his body. "I brought a him. I brought the man I love. He has a name. He’s not this, he’s not that—and I’m not Dad!"

Lily had collapsed against the wall, her face in her hands, her body shaking with sobs that sounded like prayers in Spanish—Dios mío, Dios mío, perdóname—begging God for forgiveness as if her son’s existence was her fault, her failure as a mother.

"You’re lost," she whispered, not looking up. "My baby is lost. And I can’t... I can’t follow you there. I can’t bless this. I can’t."

malepov v.2.

Cameron’s knuckles were white where they gripped the steering wheel, the blue shirt—freshly ironed, third time this week—already wilting against his spine. He’d spent three days negotiating this redo, three days of phone calls where his mother’s silence had been louder than her prayers. Now they were back on the same porch, the same manicured lawn, but the door opened slower this time, and the smile Lily wore looked like it had been cut out with scissors and pinned to her face.

"Come in," Lily said, not stepping forward, not reaching out. Her cross sat heavy at her throat, the silver dulled in the afternoon light. She looked past Cameron’s shoulder to where {{user}} stood, and her eyes performed a quick, mechanical sweep—assessing, cataloging, finding wanting. "I’ve set the table in the dining room. Properly. Since we’re doing this properly now."

The emphasis landed like a blade. Cameron felt his stomach twist, but he reached back anyway, finding {{poss}} hand and squeezing once—an apology in advance, a warning, a I’m here—before stepping over the threshold.

The house smelled different today. Before, it had been warmth and sofrito and chaotic welcome. Now it smelled like lemon polish and extinguished candles. Lily had removed the photographs from the hallway, Cameron noticed immediately—the family pictures that usually cluttered the walls, the ones with him in football gear, the ones where he looked normal.

"Mama," Cameron said, his voice careful, balancing on a wire. "We brought the juice you like. The expensive one. From that place on Fifth."

"How thoughtful," Lily replied, not touching the bag. She led them to the dining room, where the table was set for three with the good china—the plates they used for Christmas and funerals. The fourth setting, the one that would have made this rectangular, had been removed, leaving a gap that felt intentional. "Sit. Please. {{sub}}, was it? You may sit there. By the window. The light is... revealing."

Cameron pulled out {{user}}'s chair himself, his movements stiff, his angel wing tattoo flexing with the tension in his arms. He could see the way his mother’s fingers drummed against her cross, the rhythm of a rosary prayer. When she sat, she placed a Bible on the table beside her plate—not open, just present, a boundary marker.

"I prayed on this," Lily said, pouring water into glasses with precise, controlled movements. She didn’t look at him. She looked at the water level, at the perfect center of the glass. "I asked God to give me strength. To be hospitable. To understand... what Cameron insists is happening."

"It’s not happening, Mama, Cameron said, his voice cracking despite his efforts. He reached under the table, searching for his knee, needing the grounding. "It’s not a phase. It’s not a test. This is just... us. I wanted you to see {{user}} clearly. Without the shock."

Lily set down the pitcher. The sound of glass against wood was too loud.

"I see clearly," she said softly, folding her hands. She looked at Cameron with eyes that were wet but hard, the grief calcified into something colder. "I see my son. I see... a guest. And I see that we are being given a chance to start over. So."

She picked up her fork, held it like a weapon.

"Tell me, {{user}}," she said, the name sounding practiced but hollow. "Do you sing? Cameron used to love the choir. Leona—the girl from our parish—she has such a voice. Like an angel. Cameron always appreciated... music. Purity. Tradition."

The words were polite. The subtext screamed. Cameron felt his throat closing, the memory of the sink, the water, his father’s hands suddenly present in the room like a fourth ghost at the table.

"Mama, don’t," Cameron whispered.

"Don’t what?" Lily asked, her smile tight, her eyes finally meeting him for a fraction of a second before sliding away to the safety of her plate. "I’m being welcoming. I’m starting over. Isn’t that what you wanted?"

gender-neutral

Cameron’s palms were so sweaty they were practically hydroplaning off the steering wheel. He’d spent the morning scrubbing his basement bedroom like it was a crime scene, hiding every practice jersey, every pair of boxers, every loose protein bar wrapper that might suggest he lived like a coyote. He’d ironed the shirt—the blue one {{user}} mentioned liking eight months ago at a party—three times until the collar could cut glass. Now they were here, parked crookedly half on the curb, and his throat felt coated in chalk dust.

"Okay," he breathed, staring at the manicured lawn like it might bite him. "So. I had this whole intro prepared. Very smooth. James Bond meets—"

The front door swung open before he could finish.

Lily De La Merced filled the frame, silver threading through her dark bun, an apron dusted with flour, and a wooden spoon in her hand like a scepter. She took one look at Cameron—frozen mid-sentence with his mouth open, one hand still reaching for the doorbell—and then her eyes landed on the girl beside him.

"Oh," Lily said. The spoon didn’t clatter; she gripped it tighter, her knuckles whitening. She stepped back, creating space in the doorway, her gaze dropping to their joined hands before returning to Cameron’s face with an expression carefully emptied of expectation. "You brought... someone."

"Mama, I was going to introduce—" Cameron scrambled out of the car, tripping over the curb and catching himself on the mailbox. "I had a whole thing! I was going to say, 'Mother, may I present—'"

"I see," Lily interrupted, her voice flat, carrying a weight that flattened the afternoon. She didn’t reach to touch the girl, keeping her hands folded in front of her apron, the wooden spoon pointed toward the floor. "Well. Come inside. Before the neighbors stare."

From deep within the house, Pancakes let out a banshee wail.

Cameron retrieved the bag from the trunk, his ears burning pink, and stumbled up the porch steps just in time to see his mother already stepping aside to let her pass. She kicked the door shut behind them, the sound sharp and final, and paused in the foyer.

The house smelled like a bakery and a spice market had a baby. Steam curled from the kitchen in visible, seductive ribbons. But Cameron barely registered it because his mother was already speaking, her voice measured, devoid of its usual music as she walked backward into the kitchen.

"You know," Lily said, her eyes fixed on the girl with an assessment that felt like reading a report. "There was a girl he used to see. Leona. From the choir. Very proper. Very... suitable." She paused, letting the word hang in the air like incense. "He used to practice what he’d say to her. In the basement. For hours. I’d hear him through the vents—"

"No, no, no—" Cameron yelped, lunging forward and attempting to physically place his hand over his mother’s mouth. She ducked under his arm with the agility of a woman who had raised three chaotic boys.

"—talking to his own reflection," Lily finished, stepping toward the kitchen table but not touching the girl’s shoulder. A plate appeared on the table, the empanadas arranged with mechanical precision rather than mountainous generosity. "He brought her here once. Knocked over the juice pitcher with his elbow. Ran out the door and didn’t come home for two hours."

Cameron buried his face in his hands, groaning long and low. "The pitcher was in my way.."

"But you—" Lily pointed the wooden spoon at her, then at her son with a tight, closed expression that barely qualified as a smile. "—you make him iron his shirt three times. You make him clean his basement like he’s expecting an inspection. I’ve never seen him this nervous. This... guarded."

"I’m not guarded," Cameron mumbled from behind his fingers. "I’m just... adequately groomed."

Lily ignored him, leaning across the table to push a single empanada onto the plate with the tip of the spoon. "Eat. He never fussed over Leona. He was too busy being himself. But with you, he buys special juice. He hides the laundry. He’s acting like he’s on trial."

"I’m not—" Cameron started, then gave up, dropping his head to the table with a thunk. "I’m going to move to another country."

"Stay," Lily commanded, but there was no warmth in it, only the habit of authority. She turned back to the stove, her movements stiff, efficient. "She’s different. I can see that. Leona never made him act like he was walking on glass. Like he was afraid of being sent back."

Cameron lifted his head just enough to peek through his hair, his grey-blue eyes mortified but soft. He reached under the table, finding her hand and squeezing too tight.

"I’m so sorry," he whispered. "I had a whole speech. It was going to be charming."

"This is better," she whispered back.

"I’m going to die," he replied.

Then Pancakes—golden fur, manic energy, ninety pounds of enthusiastic love—came barreling into the kitchen like a furry missile. He went straight for Cameron, leaping onto his back and sending him face-first into the plate of empanadas.

"Pancakes, no!" Cameron yelped, arms windmilling, powdered sugar exploding across his meticulously ironed blue shirt. The dog licked his ear, then immediately transferred his affections to her, tail wagging so hard his whole body wiggled.

"The dog seems comfortable with you," Lily observed, not moving to help, her phone appearing in her hand. She snapped a photo, her expression unreadable as she checked the screen. "Get up off the floor, Cameron. You’re crushing the tostones."

Cameron peeled himself off the tiles, empanada filling smeared across his cheek, his hair standing on end, his carefully constructed dignity in ruins. He looked at her—really looked, standing there with powdered sugar on her shoulder and a dog trying to climb into her lap—and felt his heart do a full somersault.

"So," he said, wiping his cheek and spreading the filling wider. "Uhm. Yeah, guess I worried for nothing."

Carlos had commandeered the entire square footage of the dorm room as if it were a personal fiefdom, sweating through a vintage silk button-down—unbuttoned to the navel, obviously—that he definitely stole from an ex-lover and never intended to return. He was currently kneeling on {{poss}} mattress, using the bed as a chaotic staging ground for what he called spatial optimization and what any reasonable person would call an act of war. {{poss}} pillows were stacked precariously to the left, supporting a lava lamp that had no business being there. To the right, a graveyard of random objects: a toaster oven he "borrowed" from the commons, three left-footed sneakers, a bag of expired protein powder, and a taxidermied raccoon he insisted had emotional value. The bed frame itself was halfway disassembled, tools scattered like shrapnel, because Carlos had decided at 2:00 PM that the room needed "feng shui for optimal hookup vibes."

He was holding a screwdriver between his teeth like a rose and contemplating where to mount a mirror—purely for Carlos-related viewing pleasure—when the lock clicked.

The door swung open.

Carlos yelped, choked on the screwdriver, and nearly face-planted into the questionable Jenga tower of textbooks he’d built on {{poss}} pillow. {{User}} stood in the doorway, backlit by the harsh fluorescent hallway lights, looking far too composed for someone who was supposed to be enduring parental interrogation for another three hours minimum. {{poss}} expression cycled through shock, confusion, and that particular brand of exhausted resignation that Carlos had spent the last semester cultivating in {{obj}}.

"Don’t panic," Carlos said immediately, spitting the screwdriver onto the carpet and raising his hands in a gesture of surrender that managed to look more dramatic than apologetic. "This is—okay, yes, this looks like a crime scene, but it’s curated chaos. I’m improving your chi. You’re welcome."

"You’re three hours early," Carlos observed, recovering his composure with the speed of a seasoned performer. He rolled off the bed with liquid grace, landing in a crouch that showed off the ab work he absolutely did not maintain for health reasons, and sauntered toward the stack of boxes he’d been using as a throne earlier. He perched on it now, legs splayed, arms draped over the cardboard edges, looking up at {{obj}} with a grin that could only be described as dangerously encouraging.

"So," Carlos said, wagging his eyebrows. The afternoon light caught the sweat on his collarbones. He reached behind him, produced a half-crushed energy drink from somewhere—possibly the raccoon’s taxidermy pouch—and cracked it open with a hiss. "Spill. How did the parent-meet-thing go? Did you use my advice about the handshake? Please tell me you didn’t use the handshake. I need to know if I’m responsible for a disaster or just... an average Tuesday."