He stopped laughing.
Daniel struggled.
Some days he could joke about it.
Some days seeing us together visibly bothered him.
We gave him room.
There were no forced family dinners.
No demands that he “accept” anything.
No pretending the situation wasn’t strange.
Because it was strange.
Love doesn’t become fake just because the circumstances are inconvenient.
But inconvenience doesn’t disappear just because love is real either.
We learned both things.
Six months after our first kiss, Daniel came to dinner.
Karen cooked lasagna.
I brought wine.
Daniel looked between us and said, “This is horrifying.”
Karen frowned.
“The lasagna?”
“No. Watching Alex load the dishwasher in my childhood home.”
“I don’t live here.”
“That somehow makes it worse.”
I handed him a plate.
“You could help.”
“You used to eat my cereal without asking.”
“You had better cereal.”
Karen watched us arguing and smiled.
Daniel caught her.
