But as we walk up the front steps, I can't shake the feeling that I'm about to face judgment I've spent nine years trying to avoid.
The door opens before we can knock, revealing a woman in her late fifties with blonde hair pulled back in a loose bun and the same striking green eyes as Lila’s. She's smaller than I expected—maybe five-foot-four—but there's something about her presence that fills the doorway with warmth and authority simultaneously.
"Delilah," she says, pulling Lila into a hug that looks like coming home. "You look tired, sweetheart. Are you eating enough?"
Over Lila's shoulder, Janine's eyes find mine with the kind of assessing look that makes me understand why she was successful at raising a teenage girl who'd survived hell. It's not hostile, exactly, but it's thorough—the gaze of someone who's learned to evaluate potential threats quickly and accurately.
"I'm fine, Janine," Lila says, but she doesn't pull away from the embrace immediately. When she does, she keeps one arm around her aunt's shoulders. "I want you to meet someone. This is Kent."
"Kent," Janine repeats, extending her hand with a smile that seems genuine but reserved. "It's nice to finally meet you. I've heard…." She pauses, studying my face. "Well, I haven't heard nearly enough, apparently."
Her handshake is firm, direct, the grip of someone who's learned to take people's measure through physical contact. I find myself wondering what she's reading in the calluses on my palms, the steadiness of my grip, the fact that I meet her eyes directly instead of looking away.
"Thank you for welcoming me into your home, Mrs. North," I say, falling back on the kind of formal politeness my foster care experience taught me was safest with authority figures.
"Janine is fine. And it's my home, but it's Delilah's too. Anyone important to her is welcome here." The words are gracious, but there's an undertone that suggests importance is something that has to be proven rather than assumed.
She leads us inside, and I'm struck immediately by how different this space feels from Lila's carefully curated apartment. Where Lila's place projects professional success and emotional control, Janine's house radiates lived-in comfort. Books are stacked on every surface, plants overflow from windowsills, and photographs cover nearly every inch of wall space—candid shots of Lila at various ages, group photos with friends, travel pictures that suggest a life rich with experience and connection.
This is what a home looks like when it's built around love instead of performance.
Last night was the first night Lila and I spent together without sex. Not because either of us was avoiding it, but because what she needed was different—comfort instead of passion, gentleness instead of intensity. She'd fallen asleepcurled against my chest while I ran my fingers through her hair, both of us fully clothed, both of us acknowledging without words that grief required different kinds of intimacy.
She'd let me hold her through the whispers of her demons, trusted me to be present for her vulnerability without trying to fix or distract or overwhelm. It felt more significant than any of the explosive physical encounters we'd shared, more like a partnership than a performance.
And this morning, watching her get dressed to visit Janine, I'd been struck by how deliberately she'd chosen her outfit. Not the sharp professional attire she wears to crime scenes or the elegant dresses she favors for our private moments, but something softer. A cream-colored cardigan over a black lace top that manages to be both cozy and subtly sexy—the kind of combination that says she wants to be comfortable but hasn't forgotten that she's bringing someone she wants to impress.
Someone she wants her aunt to like.
The realization that she cares about Janine's opinion of me makes this introduction feel exponentially more significant.
"Coffee?" Janine offers, already moving toward the kitchen. "I was just making breakfast. Nothing fancy, but there's plenty."
"That would be wonderful," Lila says, settling onto the couch with the kind of unconscious familiarity that speaks to years of feeling at home here. She pats the cushion beside her, and I sit close enough that our thighs touch—close enough to offer silent support, but not so close as to seem possessive in front of her family.
The kitchen smells like bacon and fresh bread, and I can hear Janine moving around with the efficient comfort ofsomeone who's made breakfast for people she loves thousands of times. There's something deeply peaceful about it, something that makes me understand why Lila drives across the city to visit regularly despite her busy schedule.
This is what safety sounds like.
"So," Lila says when Janine returns with a tray loaded with food and steaming mugs, "I should probably introduce Kent properly." She reaches for my hand, fingers intertwining with mine in a gesture that's both possessive and protective. "Janine, this is my boyfriend."
The word makes me laugh before I can stop myself—a short, surprised sound that makes both women look at me with raised eyebrows.
"Sorry," I say, squeezing Lila's hand. "Boyfriend just seems like such a normal word for whatever we are."
"And what are you?" Janine asks, settling into an armchair across from us with her coffee cradled between her palms. The question sounds casual, but her eyes are sharp with interest.
I look at Lila, wondering how much truth she wants me to share, how much of our complicated history she's comfortable revealing. She nods slightly, giving me permission to be honest within reasonable limits.
"How did you two meet?" Janine continues before I can answer her first question, and I feel Lila's grip on my hand tighten slightly.
This is the moment where we have to decide how much reality to reveal. Where the careful balance between truth and operational security gets tested by family breakfast and genuine curiosity.
Lila takes a breath, and when she speaks, her honesty catches me completely off guard.
"Do you remember those letters I used to get after I moved in with you?" she asks, her voice steady but carrying undertones I'm sure only Janine and I can hear.
Recognition flickers across Janine's features, followed by something that might be understanding or concern. "The ones that made you smile for the first time in months? The closest thing to happiness you showed for a very long time?"
