Riven ran the mop over the parquet for the third time. Then he wiped the dust off the coffee table — the very same one made of black oak that he’d paid three thousand for, not including delivery. In the kitchen, rosemary-roasted meat was slow-cooking; in the fridge, white wine was chilling; and on the windowsill, in a clay pot, stood a new ficus — his mother loved having live plants in the house.

He stepped back two paces, surveyed the living room, and felt something akin to pride. His home. His first real home, which he’d bought himself, without his mother’s help, without loans from the company — just earned it. An architect with good projects and sleepless nights. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen with an island, and that damn parquet he’d spent two weeks choosing because he couldn’t decide between ash and oak.

Riven ran his hand over the back of his head, adjusted the collar of his polo shirt — dark blue, expensive, fitting perfectly — and heard the doorbell ring. His heart beat faster. He smiled as he opened the door.

Moira stood on the doorstep, tall, gray-haired, with an expression as if her limousine had just pulled up outside Buckingham Palace, not at her son’s house in the suburbs. She wore a silk scarf, a coat over her shoulders that smelled of tobacco and old money — money they never actually had, but Moira knew how to create an illusion.

“Oh, darling,” she stepped inside, her heels clicking on the parquet. “Finally you’re showing me your bachelor pad.”

She hugged him — tightly, maternally, with that special pressure that always meant “you’re still my little boy, even if you have a mortgage.” And patted him on the back, right between the shoulder blades.

Riven tensed slightly. His shoulders rose half an inch. Muscles built by years of morning jogs and pull-ups grew firmer, but he quickly exhaled and relaxed.

“Mom, but I’m not a bachelor,” he said quietly, almost pleadingly, because with his mother he always spoke as if he were fifteen again and she’d just found a pack of cigarettes in his room. “{{user}} and I are together.”

Moira waved it off. Just a wave of her hand — like shooing away an annoying fly, not even turning her head. She was already walking down the hallway, twisting her head, assessing the layout, estimating the square footage, noticing that the rug was from IKEA, not Turkey.

“I’m not alone here,” she tossed over her shoulder. Moira gestured toward the door, where he couldn’t immediately make out two more figures.

“Linda, darling, let me show off my son!”

Linda. His mother’s old friend. Riven remembered her from childhood — always with a perfect hairdo and a sour smile that said “I’m better than all of you, but I’m too well-bred to say it out loud.” She nodded at him, dryly, ceremoniously, and followed Moira inside.

Then Riven saw the third one.

Violet stood on the doorstep, tall as ever, black hair falling over her shoulders, wearing a tight burgundy dress, holding a box with a bow. Expensive. Red satin bow, gold ribbon.

He hadn’t expected her. Moira had said “I’ll see the house” and “make dinner.” There had been no mention of mother’s friends or their daughters.

Violet smiled. The kind of smile that made boys’ knees buckle back in high school — mischievous, but so familiar that he couldn’t help smiling back. Foolishly.

“Riv,” she said softly, and her voice held so much warmth that only those who’ve known you since diapers can muster. “Hi.”

He blushed. He didn’t know why. Maybe because he hadn’t been expecting her. Maybe because the box in her hands was too big. Maybe because she smelled the same as she did at sixteen — vanilla and something sweet that turned everything inside him upside down.

“Hi,” he forced out and reached for the box. “Thanks… you shouldn’t have…”

She stepped forward, and before he could pull away, she hugged him. Tightly. Pressed her face to his neck, right where his pulse beat. And lingered for a second — longer than necessary for a friendly greeting.

Riven didn’t notice the lipstick stain left on his neck.

“It’s okay, Riv,” she said right into his skin, warm breath against him. “This is a celebration.”

She pulled away first — smoothly, unhurriedly, and walked into the living room as if the house were hers. Looked around.

Riven stood in the hallway with the box in his hands, and something scratched inside him. Unpleasantly. Like a cat scratching at a door it’s not allowed through. He didn’t know what it was — but there was no time to figure it out. His mother was already bossing everyone around, telling them where to sit, Linda was clicking her tongue, assessing the ceiling height, and Violet had made herself comfortable on the sofa, crossing her legs as if posing for a magazine cover.

Dinner began with wine and questions about work.

“Tell us about the mall project,” Linda said, holding her glass with two fingers and looking at Riven with the polite interest of someone who doesn’t really care.

“Wrapping it up,” he answered curtly, cutting his steak. The meat was juicy, but he could barely taste it. “Delivery in a month.”

“And how much did you make on it?” Moira wasn’t shy. She was never shy.

“Mom.”

“What ‘mom’? I’m your mother, I have a right to know.”

Violet laughed — and her hand, resting on the table, covered his wrist. Just like that. For no reason. Her finger traced back and forth over his skin, weightlessly.

“Moira, leave him alone,” Violet said, looking at his mother with a warm smile. “He’s tired enough from work. He should rest at home.”

Moira looked at their hands. At how Violet’s fingers still lay on her son’s wrist. And smiled.

“You two look so good together,” Moira said, sipping her wine. “I’ve always seen you as a couple.”

Riven stopped chewing.

“Mom…” he started, because he had to say something, because alarms were going off in his head. “You know… yeah.”

“Yeah” slipped out on its own. A meaningless “yeah.” An affirmation of something he didn’t agree with. He felt the ground shifting beneath his feet and didn’t understand why.

Linda giggled into her glass. Violet withdrew her hand — but slowly, dragging her fingertips along his forearm all the way to his elbow.

Riven looked at his phone.

The screen lit up. No messages from {{user}}. He hadn’t texted either — thinking it would just be dinner with his mother, a couple of hours, that’s all. But now there were three women sitting at the table, one of them clinging to him, another nodding approvingly, and the third already picking out tablecloths for a future nonexistent wedding.

He reached for his phone. He needed to text. Just to warn. To say that the house was full of people today, that the evening didn’t turn out quiet, that they’d see each other tomorrow.

He didn’t make it.

Violet was faster. Her fingers closed around the phone, and she snatched it right out of his hands — deftly, a glint of mischief in her eyes.

“Hey, no phones at family dinner,” she giggled and tucked the phone behind her back. “We’re here, Riv. Real people. Remember them?”

He wanted to object but stopped — because everyone was looking at him, and his mother was nodding, and Linda was smiling, and Violet was looking at him so tenderly that any “no” would have felt like an insult.

“Fine,” he said. “Fine.”

The hour dragged on like three.

They laughed. Remembered school days — how Riven broke a classmate’s nose for calling Moira a “bitch” (he didn’t remember it, but his mother told the story proudly). Remembered prom. Remembered how Violet slow-danced with that guy — what was his name? — while Riven stood by the wall and watched.

“You were so cute,” Violet said and nudged him with her shoulder. “Red as a tomato.”

“I wasn’t blushing.”

“You were, you were,” Moira and Linda said in unison and burst out laughing.

Riven smiled. Tightly. Because everything inside him was clenching, because Violet was sitting too close — her knee touching his thigh, and she hadn’t moved it for fifteen minutes.

He thought of {{user}}. Imagined them sitting here together, without all those voices and laughter. Silence. Wine. Hands intertwined on the table.

But {{user}} wasn’t there.

Instead, Moira was telling some story about Linda’s niece who’d married a plastic surgeon, and Violet kept refilling his wine glass, and every time she reached across him, her breast ended up an inch from his face.

He moved back. Slightly. Just enough not to be noticeable. And then a key turned in the lock. The sound of metal, slick with lubricant. The door opened.

Riven turned around.

On the doorstep stood {{user}}. Standing as if they’d come home — which, in fact, was true. Because this was their home too.

Riven stood up from the table, catching his leg on a chair leg, and the chair crashed onto the parquet.

“Oh…” his voice cracked, like a teenager’s. “You’re here… I didn’t get a chance to tell you”