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“So, is that a yes to supper with your parents this weekend?”

I mull it over, mentally listing the pros and cons.

I do miss my dad. We may have never liked the same things, but I miss his advice, his jokes, his wild stories from work at dinner. He’s still a part of me. But can I handle hearing him say again that I deserved to get hit for being myself?

At least Ryann will be there this time. And Mom. Between the two of them expecting the worst, maybe it won’t be as bad as I’m imagining.

After several minutes of silent debate, I groan, letting my forehead thud against Ryann’s broad chest.

“Fine. We can go. But I’m bringing Master Splinter for moral support.”

The familiar scent of Mom’s cooking squeezes my chest as we step into the living room Friday night. It’s been months since I’ve had it, and while Ryann’s attempts at making us food are sweet, they don’t compare. Call me a Mama’s Boy—I don’t care.

Holding Master Splinter against my chest like a shield, I crane my neck over Mom’s shoulder as she greets us by the stairs. My stomach twists with nerves, despite the pangs of hunger I’m still getting used to. Eating regularly has been an adjustment. After years of ignoring hunger, it’s like my body is waking up, always demanding to be fed. Something about getting my groove back, or so my therapist says.

“He’s out back,” Mom says as I glance nervously around the room, her gaze flicking to Ryann’s hand on my hip.

“Mom, uh…” I cough, feeling hot and sticky despite my loose tank top. “I know you’ve met him before, but I wanted to reintroduce Ryann as my… partner.”

That’s going to take some getting used to.

Mom’s eyes light up, and she pulls Ryann into a hug before he can even extend his hand. He grunts in surprise but hugs her back, smiling indulgently.

“So you’re the reason my Shilo has been so much happier,“ she teases, grinning up at him, and he tosses me a sideways glance.

“I’d like to take all the credit, but I’m certain his friends have a lot to do with it.”

“Meh,” I shrug, though it’s probably true. KC, Carpenter and Tina have become my biggest supporters, even if they drive me nuts half the time.

Mom cups my cheek, her expression warm. “Your father is grilling steaks. Why don’t you go outside and say hi? He’s been so excited to see you.”

Swallowing hard, I give her a tight nod and head toward the back door, Ryann close behind. Mid-evening sun bathes the small backyard in golden light as we step onto the porch, Dad’s favorite band, Boston, playing softly on the radio while he whistles along at the grill. He hasn’t noticed us yet.

I’m frickin nervous. The last time I saw him, he kicked me out and told me I dressed like a queer. My outfit today—silky tank top, tan cinch pants, and jeweled flip-flops—is probably not what he’d consider “manly.” Ryann bent me over the counter this morning when I came out wearing it, though, so at least he likes it.

My hair is also long enough to curl under my chin, which Dad never tolerated when I was in high school. He always demanded pressed and neat.

Yeah, this was definitely a bad idea. In fact, we should probably escape while he’s distracted and make up an excuse. Tell him Master Splinter has the flu, and I wouldn’t want to make anyone sick. Humans can catch the flu from rats, right? Or was that the plague? Whatever it is, my rat has it, and it’s contagious.

Spinning around, I’m about to grab Ryann and make a run for it when Dad catches the movement from the corner of his eye. We freeze, staring at each other, but he recovers first, laughing nervously as he scratches his ball cap.

“You startled me,” he says, running his gaze over me. I brace for disgust or judgment, but all I see is… relief. “It’s good to see you, son. You look… healthy.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, setting Master Splinter on my shoulder. An awkward silence stretches before Dad clears his throat.

“Mr. Callahan, nice to see you again. Wasn’t expecting ya.”

Ryann’s arm slips around my waist, pulling me close. “Likewise.”

His tone is even, but I catch the subtle way he bristles over being called Mr. Callahan. If I wasn’t so anxious right now, I’d probably giggle.

Dad glances between us, stunned, before turning back to the grill, his neck slightly pink. “Food’ll be done shortly. Make yourselves comfortable.”

So we do. Ryann leads me to the outdoor table under an umbrella, a light sprinkle cooling the air. His hand rests on my thigh, possessive yet comforting, and I lean into him as we make small talk until the steaks are ready. He’s become super affectionate over the last few months, and I’m not complaining. Like, at all.

Mom eventually joins us with her pasta salad, sliding into the seat next to Dad as he gestures at the spread of food.

“Alright, folks. Dig in.”