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Early afternoon light spills through the windows of Chad’s apartment in long, slanted lines, catching on dust motes and the faint shimmer of heat that always seems to linger around him. The place is too quiet for how much energy Robert is putting into pacing a narrow path between the couch and the kitchen.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
He’s already changed twice. Maybe three times. There’s a discarded shirt draped over the arm of the couch, another abandoned halfway over the back of a chair like evidence of a losing battle. Robert drags a hand through his hair, exhales, then turns again, muttering something under his breath that even he doesn’t fully register.
Chad watches him for a minute. He doesn’t interrupt right away, but he does lean against the kitchen counter, arms crossed loosely, eyes tracking Robert’s restless movement with quiet focus. There’s something almost fond in the way he watches him unravel, not amused or mocking. Just… aware.
He pushes off the counter when Robert makes another tight turn, steps into his path without announcing it. Robert nearly walks straight into him.
“Jesus—” he starts, stopping short.
Chad doesn’t give him the chance to recover. He just reaches out, slides his arms around Robert from behind in one smooth motion, and pulls him in. It’s immediate and grounding. Robert stiffens on instinct, shoulders tensing under the sudden contact, but before he can protest or even fully form the thought, warmth spreads.
Chad’s hands heat first, subtle at the edges, then deeper, the warmth blooming through his palms as he presses them gently against Robert’s arms. It’s controlled, deliberate, the kind of heat that doesn’t burn but soaks in, sinking through fabric and skin like it belongs there. He starts moving his hands slowly up Robert’s arms, over his shoulders, firm but unhurried, like he’s smoothing out tension he can physically feel.
“You’re tense, Bob-bob.”
Robert exhales. It leaves him in a quiet rush, like he’s been holding it for longer than he realized. His body loosens by degrees, the tight line of his shoulders easing as he lets his weight shift back, just slightly, into Chad’s chest.
“I’m nervous,” he admits.
The words are less guarded than usual. Chad leans in without thinking, pressing his nose into Robert’s hair, inhaling slowly. It’s grounding in its own way, and for a moment, neither of them moves.
“About what?” Chad murmurs. “My mother loves you, I’m sure my father and sister will love you, too.” There’s a faint huff of breath against Robert’s temple, something almost amused. “Fuck, my niece will love you whether you’re Mecha Man or not. What are you worried about?”
Robert hesitates. It’s small, but Chad feels it in the way he goes still again, the way his breath catches just slightly before evening out.
“I just…” Robert trails off, then exhales, like he’s trying to organize something that doesn’t want to sit neatly. “I don’t know. I just wanna look good around your family friends, too.”
Chad stills for a second. Then his hands slow, stop, and he gently turns Robert around in his arms until they’re facing each other. Up close, it’s easier to see not just the nervous energy, not just the pacing or the overthinking, but Robert’s expression. It’s the way his eyes don’t quite settle, like he’s searching for something he can’t name.
Chad reaches up and cups the side of his face. His thumb brushes lightly along Robert’s cheekbone, grounding him the same way his warmth had, steady, intentional.
“Azizam,” he says softly.
The word lands warm, familiar. Robert looks at him then, really looks at him, and something in his chest tightens at the expression he finds there.
Chad’s eyes, those steady, ember-bright eyes, are soft and full of something that makes it hard to breathe for a second.
“You’ll do great.”
There’s no hesitation in it. No doubt. Just certainty, offered freely, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. Robert exhales again, slower this time.
“…Yeah,” he murmurs, though it sounds more like he’s convincing himself than agreeing.
Chad doesn’t call him out on it. He just lets his hand linger for a second longer before dropping it, stepping back just enough to give Robert space but not enough to feel distant.
“Come on,” he says. “We should go soon.”
Robert nods, though his fingers fidget briefly at his sleeve before he stills them.
“Okay. But before we do,” he adds, glancing up, “you’re giving me a full rundown again.”
Chad raises an eyebrow. “Again?”
“Yes, again,” Robert says, already bracing himself. “I refuse to walk into this blind.”
Chad exhales through his nose, something faintly amused slipping through. “You’re overthinking, Robert.”
“I am preparing.”
“You’re overthinking.”
“I'm—” Robert stops himself, sighs. “…Just tell me again.”
Chad studies him for a second. Then relents.
“Fine,” he says. “But if you embarrass yourself after this, that’s on you.”
“I always embarrass myself,” Robert mutters. “This is about minimizing damage.”
Chad huffs, shaking his head slightly, but there’s no real bite to it.
“My mother,” he starts, leaning back against the counter again, “Farzana. She’s observant. Notices everything. But she’s kind. Warmer than me.”
“That’s not hard,” Robert mutters.
Chad ignores him. “She’s already decided she likes you through FaceTime.”
Robert pauses. “…Already?”
“She met you once,” Chad says. “That was enough.”
Robert blinks, clearly not expecting that. “Okay. That’s… mildly terrifying.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“It is.”
Chad rolls his eyes lightly but continues. “My father’s name is Daoud. He won’t say much, but if he likes you, you’ll know.”
“How?”
“He won’t look like he’s evaluating you anymore.”
“…Great.”
“He’ll respect you,” Chad adds simply. “That’s what matters.”
Robert nods slowly, filing that away.
“My sister Laleh,” Chad continues, and there’s a slight shift in his tone. “is going to tease you.”
“I’ve gathered that.”
“She teases everyone,” Chad says. “But if she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t bother.”
“So I want to be teased.”
“Yes.”
“I hate that.”
“You’ll live.”
Robert huffs quietly but doesn’t argue. “And your niece?” he asks after a moment.
There’s a pause. It’s small, but Robert notices. Because Chad, who has been steady, matter-of-fact through all of this, softens. It’s subtle. The way his shoulders ease, the way his expression shifts just slightly, like something gentler has slipped into place without permission.
“Parisa,” Chad says.
And even the way he says her name is so soft.
“She’s turning seven,” he adds. “She’s a lot. Loud. Energetic. Doesn’t sit still.”
Robert smiles faintly. “Sounds like she takes after you.”
Chad scoffs. “She’s worse.” But there’s only fondness when he speaks.
“She’s important to you,” Robert says, not quite a question.
Chad’s expression tightens for a second. Then he looks away. “…Yeah,” he says, quieter now.
Robert’s smile fades into something more thoughtful, more careful. He steps a little closer. Chad exhales slowly, like he’s debating whether to say more. Then, he speaks.
“When I went to prison,” he says, voice lower now, more grounded, “I didn’t get to see her.”
The words land heavier than anything he’s said so far.
“She was…” He trails off, jaw tightening briefly before he continues. “She was just a baby. Barely remembered me, probably.”
Robert doesn’t interrupt. He just listens.
“So now,” Chad continues, quieter still, “while I’m here—while I’m… around—I just…” He exhales again, like the words don’t come naturally. “I want to be present. As much as I can.”
There’s no drama in it. Robert’s chest tightens, something warm and heavy settling there all at once. He studies Chad for a second, not just the steady exterior, not just the control, but the quiet weight behind it.
“…That’s good,” Robert says softly.
Chad glances back at him. Robert’s expression has changed. Softer now, touched in a way he’s not even trying to hide.
“You should be,” Robert adds, just as quietly. “She’s lucky to have you.”
Chad stills as if the words caught him off guard. Then he exhales, looking away again, but not before Robert catches the faint shift in his expression. Something quieter. Something that lingers.
“Yeah,” Chad mutters.
The room settles into a different kind of silence after that. Robert shifts slightly, brushing his hand against Chad’s arm as he moves past him, lighter now, more grounded than before.
“Okay,” he says, glancing back with a small, steadier smile. “Let’s go meet your family.”
The drive over is quieter than Robert expects.
There’s the low hum of the engine, the soft rhythm of tires against pavement, the faint sound of music playing from the radio, but the space between them feels contained, like everything Robert is thinking is sitting just under the surface, waiting for the smallest excuse to spill out.
Chad keeps one hand loosely on the wheel, steady and controlled, the other resting near Robert’s knee. Not touching, but close enough that the warmth radiating from him is noticeable, a quiet presence that feels intentional even if he’s pretending it isn’t. Robert watches the houses pass by through the window, one after another, blurring slightly as they go. His fingers tap lightly against his thigh: quick, uneven, restless.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He stops. Forces his hand still. Waits.
It starts again.
Chad notices. He doesn’t look over right away or call it out immediately. He just shifts slightly in his seat, the hand near Robert’s knee moving just a fraction closer, not enough to touch, just enough that the warmth becomes more obvious, more present. Robert doesn’t comment on it, but his tapping slows.
“I’m going to say something weird,” he mutters after a moment.
Chad hums lightly. “You always do.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“You’ll survive.”
Robert huffs under his breath, glancing over at him. “If your extended family collectively decides I’m strange, I’m blaming you.”
“They already know I’m strange,” Chad replies evenly, eyes still on the road. “You’re just an extension of that.”
Robert turns fully now, staring at him. “…Wow.”
“It’s true.”
“That’s not how you reassure someone.”
“You don’t need reassurance.”
“I very much do.”
“No, you don’t.”
Robert lets out a long, suffering sigh, dropping his head back against the seat. “This is exactly what I mean. I am expressing vulnerability, and you are—what is this—bullying me?”
“I’m not bullying you.”
“You just called me an extension of your problems.”
“You are.”
“…Chad.”
He finally glances over then. The sarcasm doesn’t quite mask it. There’s something in Robert’s expression that gives him away, something quieter under the complaints. The tightness around his eyes, the way his shoulders haven’t fully relaxed, the way his hand still twitches slightly against his thigh like it doesn’t know what to do with itself. He’s still nervous.
Chad exhales softly through his nose, gaze flicking back to the road.
“You’re overthinking,” he says.
“I am thinking an appropriate amount.”
“You’re rehearsing conversations in your head.”
“I am preparing.”
“You’re planning your reactions to hypothetical scenarios that aren’t going to happen.”
Robert pauses. “…That is none of your business.”
“It is when you start spiraling.”
“I am not spiraling.”
Chad snorts quietly.
Robert shoots him a look. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That dismissive noise.”
“It wasn’t dismissive.”
“It was very dismissive.”
Chad doesn’t argue this time. Instead, his hand moves. It settles lightly against Robert’s knee, warm and steady, his thumb pressing once, briefly, like punctuation. Robert stills. The tapping stops completely.
“…You’re warm,” he mutters.
“I know.”
“That’s not normal.”
“I’ve been told.”
Robert huffs, but it’s quieter now, the edge of his tension softening just slightly under the contact. Chad leaves his hand there. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it or look at him again. Just keeps driving like this is normal, like it doesn’t mean anything beyond what it is.
“You’re fine,” he says after a moment, voice lower now. Less teasing. More grounded.
Robert exhales slowly, some of the tightness leaving his chest with it.
“Your family is different from you,” he says, like he’s trying to reason it out loud.
Chad raises an eyebrow. “Different how?”
“Warmer,” Robert says immediately.
“I’m warm.”
“You’re physically warm. That is not the same thing.”
Chad scoffs. “I’m plenty warm.”
“You threatened to throw a chair at someone last week.”
“He deserved it.”
“That’s not the point.”
“That is the point.”
Robert shakes his head, but there’s a faint smile tugging at his mouth now, his shoulders loosening just slightly.
“They’re going to expect normal behavior,” he continues.
“They know me.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“They’ll like you.”
“They don’t know me.”
Chad doesn’t waver. “You’re not going to embarrass yourself,” he adds.
Robert narrows his eyes slightly. “That sounds like a challenge.”
“It’s not.”
“It feels like one.”
“You’re already embarrassing.”
“Okay, now you’re just being mean.”
Chad’s thumb presses lightly against his knee again, a quiet, grounding gesture that completely contradicts the words coming out of his mouth.
“You’ll do fine,” he says, softer this time.
Robert watches him for a second longer. Then exhales.
“…Okay,” he mutters, more to himself than anything else.
He shifts slightly in his seat, not pulling away from the warmth, not moving Chad’s hand—just settling into it like he’s decided to accept it.
“…If your niece doesn’t like me, though,” he adds after a beat, “I’m leaving.”
“She’ll like you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
Chad glances at him again, just briefly. “…Because I do.”
It’s simple. And for some reason, that does more than anything else. Robert huffs quietly, shaking his head as he looks back out the window. “…Okay,” he says again.
And this time, he sounds a little more convinced.
The moment they step out of the car, Robert knows two things immediately: one, this is not going to be a quiet event, and two, it smells incredible.
Music spills out of the house even before they reach the door, a layered cascade of rhythm and clapping and laughter that threads into the cool evening air. It isn’t just sound; it’s a presence, a pulse that seems to draw him forward even as his chest tightens with a familiar flutter of nerves. There’s a warmth to it, something alive and undeniably inviting, and for a moment Robert just pauses, letting the melody wash over him, the scents swirl—cinnamon, something savory sizzling somewhere deeper in the house, a sweetness like caramel or sugar, and the earthy spice of rice cooking—and feels the tug of hesitation loosen ever so slightly in his shoulders.
Chad notices immediately. His hand finds the small of Robert’s back without hesitation, a steadying weight that grounds him in a way words never could.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, low and calm. Robert swallows, nodding, though his chest still hums with a little tension.
“I am breathing,” he replies, trying to convince himself as much as anyone. Chad presses his thumb lightly against Robert’s back, just once, firm enough to remind him he isn’t alone.
“You’re fine,” he says simply. And though Robert nods, it’s more an acceptance of Chad’s certainty than of his own.
“…Okay,” he breathes, and the small word feels like a tiny, fragile step forward.
They step inside together, and the door swings shut behind them like a velvet curtain cutting them off from the quiet world outside. The warmth hits first, tangible and enveloping, wrapping around him like a heavy, comforting blanket. The smell that follows has layers, each new wave more complex than the last: spices that make his stomach clench with anticipation, something frying in a pan somewhere toward the back of the house, the faint sweetness of desserts just out of reach, and the earthy, homey undertone of rice simmering in a pot.
Then the music swells, louder now, voices overlapping, laughter slicing through the rhythm in bright bursts. People move through the hallway, into the living room, and toward the kitchen while shoes are lined up neatly by the door, a silent testament to a household accustomed to both chaos and order. Robert hesitates, just long enough to take it all in, letting his senses drink deeply of the life inside the house, the smell and sound and warmth all blending together into something intoxicating, something that starts to hum in his blood.
And then, without realizing it, he begins to move. Not with intention or with any awareness beyond the pull of the rhythm, but his body responds all the same: a little shimmy, a subtle sway, shoulders loosening, hips shifting just enough to match the pulse.
Chad stops. Completely.
“...Are you—” he begins, his voice caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement.
Robert freezes mid-step, glancing down at himself as if he might find proof that he isn’t, in fact, moving with the beat.
“…No,” he says firmly.
“You’re dancing,” Chad corrects, his brow quirked.
“I am walking,” Robert insists, though his feet betray him with a subtle slide and sway.
“That is not walking,” Chad says, and the laughter is already tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Robert glances down at himself again, as though a second look might rewrite the evidence of his involuntary rhythm.
“It’s… rhythmic walking,” he offers, and the absurdity of the phrase seems to catch even him off guard.
Chad stares at him for a moment longer, then lets a soft, genuine, and impossible-to-stop laugh slip free, shaking his head as he nudges Robert forward with a light push. “Come on, rhythmic walker,” he teases, and Robert groans under his breath, a faint, reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as the edges of his nerves soften under the warmth, the music, the laughter.
Shoes come off near the door, and Robert takes care to line his neatly, as if the alignment is a test of some unspoken etiquette.
“Do not overthink the shoes,” Chad mutters, but Robert’s hands linger for a moment longer.
“I’m not overthinking the shoes.”
“You’re aligning them.”
“I am being respectful.”
“You’re aligning them.”
Robert shoots him a look, sharp but amused. “Let me have this.”
Chad hums, a low, amused sound that vibrates between them, guiding Robert further into the house, past the swirling scents and layered laughter, deeper into the pulse of it all. The warmth of the rooms seems to ripple outward, carrying life with it. There’s a subtle clatter of dishes, the high-pitched giggle of a child darting past a chair, and the low murmur of voices weaving through the hallways kept the house alive. Each step Robert takes feels like slipping further into a world that exists entirely on its own rhythm, a rhythm that hums in the walls, in the floorboards, in the very air. He feels it tugging at him, coaxing the tension out of his shoulders, loosening the tight coil in his chest, even as the sheer volume of life pressing around him threatens to make him dizzy.
But Chad’s presence is constant, steady as the beat of a drum against his spine, an anchor he can lean into without thinking, a quiet tether that reminds him he is safe, that he belongs here, even if only for tonight.
The house feels… full. Not crowded in the suffocating sense of a space packed too tightly with bodies, but full in the way a heart can feel full: alive, moving, breathing. Every room vibrates with some kind of energy, from the kitchen where someone calls out a question and laughter answers, to the living room where clusters of people talk over each other, the occasional squeal of children darting between adults like small sparks of motion. Robert moves with the flow, staying close—not clinging, but close enough that he can feel the warmth of Chad’s body beside him, the subtle guidance of a hand at his back, a brush of a palm at his elbow, the tiny adjustments that steer him through the tide of motion without drawing attention.
“Stay with me,” Chad murmurs quietly, almost as if sharing a secret.
“I am with you,” Robert replies, the words steadying him as much as the touch.
“Good,” Chad says, and Robert lets himself sink into the rhythm of it, letting the chaos become a part of him, letting the house’s life hum beneath his skin.
The introductions come quickly, one after another, a sudden flurry of names and gestures that threatens to overwhelm, but Chad navigates it all with fluid ease.
“Zahir!” a voice calls, cutting through the noise like a bright chord.
Robert blinks, momentarily disoriented. Zahir?
He doesn’t have time to process it before a woman approaches, older and graceful, her gaze immediately finding Chad before flicking to Robert with a spark of curiosity.
“Madar,” Chad says, his voice lower now, threaded with respect and something softer, almost reverent.
Farzana.
She steps closer, taking Chad’s face in her hands for a brief, grounding moment, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before letting her eyes settle on Robert. And in that instant, her expression brightens, wide and welcoming, as if she’s been waiting for him all along.
“This is Robert,” Chad says.
Farzana doesn’t hesitate. She reaches for him, her hands warm and steady as they take his, and her voice carries a softness that belies its certainty.
“Welcome, jan,” she says. “You must be hungry.”
Robert opens his mouth, caught off guard. “I—”
“You are too thin,” she continues before he can answer, already guiding him toward the kitchen, weaving him into the center of the house’s warmth and movement.
Robert glances back at Chad, helpless, uncertain. Chad just shrugs, a small, bemused motion. “Told you.”
And just like that, Robert finds himself swept into the current of the household, the smells and laughter and warmth pressing in from all sides, and he is being fed, his hands full of food before he can even form a proper protest.
It happens so quickly, Robert barely has time to register the shift before he’s swept into it entirely. One moment he’s standing there, still adjusting to the rhythm of the house, and the next a plate is pressed into his hands, warm and fragrant, followed immediately by another dish set down in front of him with gentle insistence. Something else appears at his elbow, someone urging him to try this, to taste that, the movement seamless and practiced, like a choreography everyone knows by heart except him.
There’s no room to protest, not when it’s delivered with such certainty, such care. He finds himself taking a bite simply because it’s there, because it would feel wrong not to, and the moment the flavor hits his tongue, rich and layered and undeniably good, his resistance falters entirely.
“This is really good,” he says, and he means it, the words slipping out between bites as warmth spreads through him in a way that has nothing to do with the temperature of the food.
Farzana smiles like she already knew, like his reaction is simply confirmation of something long established.
“Eat more,” she insists, and there’s no pressure in it, only quiet authority wrapped in kindness.
“I—okay,” Robert concedes, because there’s something disarming about the way she says it, something that makes refusal feel almost unnatural.
Nearby, Chad leans casually against the counter, arms crossed, watching the entire scene unfold with poorly concealed amusement. There’s a lightness to him now, something easy and familiar, as if this space has smoothed out all his edges. Robert catches the look and narrows his eyes slightly, chewing as he gestures faintly with his fork.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” he mutters.
Chad shrugs, unrepentant. “You said you wanted to make a good impression.”
“This feels like a test.”
“It is.”
Robert exhales sharply through his nose, somewhere between a laugh and a complaint. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
He pauses, the words catching just long enough to settle into something softer before he answers. “…No, I don’t.” And for a brief moment, Chad’s expression eases, just slightly, the humor giving way to something quieter, warmer.
“Robert.”
The voice is deeper this time, steady enough to cut cleanly through the surrounding noise without raising in volume. Robert turns, instinctively straightening as a man approaches—tall, composed, his presence calm in a way that feels deliberate rather than passive.
“Baba,” Chad says, and there’s a subtle change in his tone again, something grounded, respectful.
Daoud doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward and extends his hand, and Robert takes it immediately, his own grip firm despite the flicker of nerves that sparks in his chest. The handshake is solid, measured, and intentional, as though every part of it carries weight.
Daoud studies him for a moment, just a moment, his gaze sharp but not unkind. Then he nods. “Welcome.”
That’s it. No elaboration, no flourish. And yet somehow, it feels like enough. Robert exhales quietly, tension he hadn’t fully acknowledged slipping from his shoulders.
“Thank you,” he replies, the sincerity in his voice grounding the moment before Daoud steps away as smoothly as he arrived.
Robert leans slightly toward Chad, lowering his voice. “I think your father just evaluated my entire existence in three seconds.”
“He approved.”
“Are you sure?”
“He didn’t keep looking at you.”
Robert considers that, brows knitting briefly. “…That’s comforting in a very specific way.”
“Wow.”
The new voice carries a different energy—sharper, edged with amusement—and Robert turns again to find a woman leaning casually against the doorway, her expression openly entertained as she takes him in.
Laleh.
Her gaze flicks between him and Chad with quick, knowing precision. “So this is the one you stopped punching people for?”
Robert chokes slightly on absolutely nothing, the air catching in his throat as Chad groans under his breath. “Laleh—”
“No, no,” she cuts him off with a wave, pushing off the doorway and stepping closer, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “I need confirmation, Zahir. Is this the one?”
Robert doesn’t bristle. Instead, he crosses his arms slowly, his eyes narrowing in something more curious than offended, something thoughtful as he pieces together the fragments he’s been given. Then he turns his head, looking directly at Chad with deliberate calm.
“Zahir?” he says.
The name lands, and Chad freezes. Laleh’s grin widens instantly, bright with triumph. “Oh, he didn’t tell you?”
Robert’s own expression shifts, a slow, spreading smirk that carries just enough satisfaction to make it dangerous. “Oh, he definitely didn’t.”
Chad— Zahir glares, caught somewhere between defensive and resigned. “It’s not—”
“Zahir,” Robert repeats, testing the sound of it, the shape of it, like he’s filing it away for later use. Chad makes a face, scrunching his nose, and then, with all the dignity of a grown man under pressure, he blows a raspberry at him.
Robert stares. “Did you just—”
He doesn’t get to finish. Zahir steps in quickly, closing the distance in a way that’s sudden but not jarring, leaning in just enough to nuzzle his nose briefly against Robert’s cheek: soft, fleeting, undeniably affectionate, and very clearly meant to derail him entirely. It works. Robert goes completely still.
“Stay here,” Zahir mutters, already pulling back, his voice low with something suspiciously like satisfaction. “I’m getting more food.”
And then he’s gone, slipping into the kitchen with practiced ease, retreating under the guise of helpfulness. Robert remains where he is for a second, blinking, the warmth of the brief contact lingering in a way that feels far louder than it should. Processing.
Beside him, Laleh snorts. “Yeah. You’re definitely the one.”
Robert clears his throat, trying and failing to fully recover his composure. “He nuzzled me.”
“Yes, he does that.”
“In front of people?”
“Yes.”
Robert exhales slowly, staring ahead as if that might help him recalibrate. “…I see.”
Laleh pats his arm, entirely unbothered. “You’ll get used to it.”
Robert, still faintly stunned, isn’t entirely convinced he’ll ever get used to any of this, but he doesn’t get the chance to sit with that thought for long. Because suddenly, the energy in the room shifts. There’s movement, quick and bright and impossible to ignore, and a small blur of motion darting through the space with absolute purpose. It collides directly into Zahir just as he re-emerges from the kitchen, arms full and attention divided, and the impact is immediate, joyful, unrestrained.
“Uncle Zahir!”
Parisa latches onto him without hesitation, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist as if she’s done it a hundred times before, as if it’s second nature. She bounces slightly where she stands, all contained excitement and barely held stillness. Zahir reacts just as instinctively, one hand settling at her back while the other shifts to set his plate aside before it can slip from his grip.
“Hey,” he says, his voice softening completely, warmth flooding through it in a way Robert hasn’t quite heard before, something unguarded and instinctive. “You’re taller.”
“I’m seven now!” she announces, drawing herself up with unmistakable pride, like the number alone should explain everything.
“Almost,” Zahir corrects automatically.
“Seven is basically eight.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
Sounds like familiar banter, Robert thinks.
Zahir huffs under his breath, a quiet sound that carries no real resistance, only fondness threaded through every syllable. It’s the kind of exchange that’s been repeated before, familiar and easy, and Robert finds himself watching the way Zahir’s posture shifts, the way his edges soften, and the way this version of him fits so seamlessly into the life unfolding around them with a quiet sort of fascination.
And then Parisa notices him.
She leans back just enough to get a proper look, though one hand remains firmly hooked into Zahir’s shirt, anchoring herself there as she studies Robert with intense, unwavering focus. Her eyes narrow thoughtfully, like she’s working through a very serious equation.
“Who’s this?” she asks, her tone direct and unfiltered.
Zahir glances over, easy and unbothered. “This is Robert.”
Parisa squints. Her entire face scrunches slightly as she evaluates him with surprising thoroughness, as if this introduction carries real weight. Under that scrutiny, Robert straightens instinctively, suddenly hyper-aware of everything from the way he’s standing to where his hands are positioned, unsure why this feels so much more nerve-wracking than anything else so far.
“Hi,” he offers carefully, the word measured, tentative but genuine.
She tilts her head and lets the silence stretch just long enough to matter.
And then— “I like him.”
It’s immediate, delivered with the kind of confidence that leaves no room for debate, no conditions attached, no hesitation lingering at the edges. Just a verdict, clean and final.
Definitely Chad’s niece.
Zahir lets out a quiet laugh, something pleased slipping into it as he glances briefly at Robert. “Good,” he says simply.
Robert blinks, the tension he hadn’t realized he was holding easing all at once. “That was easier than I expected,” he admits, a hint of disbelief threading through his voice.
Parisa nods firmly, as if his confusion is entirely unnecessary.
“You look nice,” she adds, the compliment offered with the same straightforward certainty.
Robert glances down at himself, momentarily thrown, as though he might discover what exactly earned that approval.
“Thank you?” he replies, the words coming out slightly uncertain but warm all the same.
She beams at him, bright and unrestrained.
And just like that, something in his chest loosens.
The shift happens gradually this time, not in a rush of movement or voices, but in the way Robert’s attention begins to settle, to pick out details from the blur of warmth and noise around him. Now that he isn’t bracing quite so hard against everything, he starts to notice small things at first, then unmistakable things. Bright colors strung along the walls, cutouts taped carefully at uneven heights, a banner stretched across one corner of the room with bold, dramatic lettering. His gaze drifts further, catching on a table lined with little bags, themed and neatly arranged, and then the centerpiece: a cake, decorated with a vividly frosted figure he recognizes a second too late.
Mecha Man.
It’s everywhere: on the plates, the napkins, the decorations scattered across the room in cheerful abundance. It’s enthusiastic, wholehearted, and completely committed, and somehow, it fits perfectly with the energy of the house, the laughter, movement, and the unfiltered joy threading through everything.
Robert exhales a quiet, amused breath, his lips twitching as he takes it all in, the realization settling fully into place.
“She’s really into Mecha Man, huh?” he says, glancing sideways.
Zahir follows his line of sight, his expression unreadable for half a second before it softens into something quieter. “Yeah,” he replies simply.
Robert hums, folding his arms loosely as he watches Parisa dart past again, her laughter bright and unrestrained, a small plastic version of the same character clutched tightly in her hand. His gaze lingers, thoughtful, amused in a way that feels lighter now.
“I guess I’m not just your type,” he adds, the words slipping out easily, teasing but edged with something softer beneath.
Zahir snorts without missing a beat. “Shut up, Bitch.”
The insult lands without weight, familiar and effortless, but something shifts in the space between them anyway. Parisa doesn’t give them long to linger in it. She reappears at Robert’s side with the same uncontainable energy as before, practically vibrating with excitement, her hands already gesturing before she even starts speaking.
“He’s the strongest!” she declares, holding up her Mecha Man figure like evidence. “He saves people! And he doesn’t get scared!”
Her voice carries absolute certainty, the kind that only comes from wholehearted belief, and Robert finds himself smiling before he even realizes it, something warm and genuine slipping into his expression as he crouches slightly to meet her at eye level.
“That’s pretty impressive,” he says, playing along easily, his tone light but sincere.
Parisa nods vigorously, pleased, launching into further explanation without pause, her words tumbling over each other as she recounts feats and victories with dramatic flair. Robert listens, asking the occasional question, letting himself be pulled into her world without resistance, the edges of his earlier nerves fading further with every passing second.
Across the room, Zahir watches. He doesn’t interrupt. He simply leans back where he stands, arms loose at his sides, his attention fixed on the interaction unfolding in front of him. There’s something quiet in his expression, something soft that doesn’t quite reach the surface but lingers there all the same, in the way his gaze follows Robert, in the faint shift of his posture as he takes it in.
Robert finds himself smiling, crouched beside a seven-year-old passionately explaining a hero who never gets scared while someone across the room watches him like he’s something worth holding onto.
The moment settles into something quieter without losing its warmth, the noise of the house drifting into the background like a steady hum rather than something pressing in on all sides. Robert finds himself seated this time, drawn down to Parisa’s level almost without thinking, the two of them tucked into a small pocket of space amid the movement. There’s frosting on a plate nearby, half-finished, a plastic fork abandoned in favor of something far more important: the small Mecha Man figure Parisa holds with absolute reverence, turning it carefully in her hands as if it’s something sacred rather than mass-produced.
Robert leans in slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, the easy smile returning without effort now, softened by the rhythm he’s finally settled into. “You like Mecha Man?”
Parisa beams instantly, the kind of bright, unfiltered joy that seems to light up her entire face.
“Yeah!” she says, clutching the figure tighter. “He saved my uncle!”
Robert freezes. The words don’t land all at once. They hover somewhere just out of reach, like his mind refuses to process them properly the first time around. His smile falters, caught in place as something underneath it shifts.
“What?” he asks, quieter now, the word slipping out before he can stop it.
Nearby, Zahir is standing exactly where he was before. Parisa doesn’t notice the shift. Or if she does, she doesn’t interpret it as anything significant. She continues easily, her voice full of the same certainty as before, her hands moving as she talks, the figure lifting and turning as if it’s acting out the story she’s telling.
She explains how she saw it on the news, on someone’s phone, snippets of footage replayed enough times to cement itself into memory. How Mecha Man showed up when things were dangerous, when it mattered. How he saved Uncle Zahir. And that was it.
That was all it took.
Robert listens, very still now, the noise of the house fading further and further into the distance as her words settle into something heavier than they should be. Something that doesn’t quite fit with the way he’s always understood himself. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t correct her. Just listens as she finishes with quiet conviction,
“—and that’s why he’s my favorite. Forever!”
There’s a small pause, and then Parisa looks down at the figure in her hands, considering it for a moment before making a decision with the same decisive certainty she applies to everything else. She presses it into Robert’s hands.
“You can have this one,” she says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Robert blinks, instinctively starting to protest. “I—no, you don’t have to—”
“I have more,” she insists immediately, already nodding like the matter is settled. “You should keep it.”
His fingers close around it before he can fully argue, the plastic warm from her grip, absurdly light for something that suddenly feels like it carries weight. He looks down at it for a second longer than necessary, something quiet and private settling into his expression before he nods once.
“Okay,” he says softly. He doesn’t make a show of it, but he keeps it, his hand curling just slightly tighter around it like he understands, instinctively, that this is something he isn’t supposed to give back.
Parisa brightens again immediately, already moving on.
“You should train me,” she adds, completely serious, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “So I can help too. You send heroes to save people, right? You could teach me how.”
That makes something in his chest shift. Robert looks at her, and the expression on his face changes in slow, quiet stages. First, the lingering shock, the disorientation of trying to reconcile her words with his own understanding of himself. Then understanding, fragile but growing, begins to settle in, piecing together what she’s saying, what she believes, what this moment means from her perspective. And beneath that, deeper than he expects, something emotional takes root. Something that catches him off guard entirely, pressing up against his ribs in a way that feels almost too big for the space it’s in.
He doesn’t see himself like that. Never has. The idea of being anyone’s “hero”—of being this—has never quite fit. Mecha Man has always been something separate, something distant, something almost abstract. Not this. Not real in the way she’s describing it. Not something that leaves this kind of imprint.
And yet, when Robert glances up, Zahir is already looking at him. Their eyes meet across the space, and for a moment, everything else fades completely. Zahir’s expression is soft, open in a way he rarely lets it be, something unspoken resting there without hesitation.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, steady and certain. “I guess he did.”
Zahir remembers it that way, carries it that way. And somehow, without Robert ever realizing, that moment didn’t just belong to him. It became something bigger. Something that reached beyond him, into this house, into this family, into the way they see the world and the people in it.
“Thank you, Parisa,” is all he can manage to say, a small smile taking over his face.
By the time the night stretches a few hours further, the energy of the house still hasn’t faded. It’s simply shifted, settling into something looser, brighter, more rhythmic. The music has taken center stage now, louder and more insistent, drawing people into the open space that’s been cleared for dancing. Clapping punctuates the beat, voices rising in encouragement, laughter spilling freely as people take turns stepping forward, pulling others in, refusing to let anyone linger too long on the edges. Robert doesn’t escape it, not that he really tries.
At some point, someone grabs his hand, then someone else, and suddenly he’s being pulled into the circle, the rhythm clapping around him, feet stomping in practiced patterns he doesn’t quite understand but tries to follow anyway. The dance is fast, grounded, full of sharp turns and coordinated steps, and Robert—who has exactly zero experience with any of this—does his best. He watches, mimics, adjusts half a beat too late, shoulders loosening as laughter bubbles up around him, not unkind, never mocking. Encouraging. Warm.
He trips once. Not badly, but just enough to stumble over his own foot, catching himself a second too late. Zahir laughs, a bright sound that slips out before he can stop it, his grin immediate and unguarded. Robert shoots him a look mid-recovery, half-offended, half-amused, breathless from the effort.
“Don’t—” he starts, but someone claps louder, someone else cheers him on, and the moment dissolves into movement again before he can finish the thought.
And somehow, impossibly, they find it endearing.
Every misstep, every slightly offbeat movement, every attempt to follow along that lands just a little unevenly doesn’t push him out of the circle. If anything, it pulls him further in. People laugh with him, not at him, guiding him back into rhythm, clapping in time until he catches it again. And Robert, flushed and a little breathless, lets himself be carried by it, the earlier hesitation gone, replaced by something lighter, freer.
Eventually, though, he slips out of the circle, the movement and noise giving way to a quieter pocket near the edge of the room. His chest rises and falls as he catches his breath, laughter still lingering at the edges of it, and without thinking too much about it, he reaches out, finding Zahir, tugging him gently but insistently away from the center of it all. “You never told me that your family sees me that way.”
The words come out softer than expected, quieter, but they land with weight. Zahir looks at him, head tilting slightly, though there’s no confusion in his expression, just recognition.
“Didn’t think I had to,” he replies with an easy shrug, like the answer is obvious, like it’s always been obvious.
Robert exhales, the remnants of adrenaline from the dancing fading into something steadier, something heavier beneath the surface.
“Parisa thinks I saved you,” he says, and there’s something unguarded, something almost uncertain in a way he rarely allows himself to be.
Zahir steps closer to close the space between them, to shift the moment into something quieter, more contained. He reaches for Robert’s hand, taking it gently, naturally, like it belongs there, and lifts it without hesitation. His grip is steady, familiar, the absence of his pinkie and ring finger noticeable only in the way his hand settles differently, uniquely, against Robert’s skin.
Then he presses a soft, unrushed kiss to it.
“You did,” Zahir says.
Robert stills, the movement in the house continuing around them, laughter and music and clapping carrying on as if nothing has shifted, but something in him has. It shows in the way his shoulders drop slightly, in the way his expression softens, the sharp edges of his usual composure easing into something quieter, more grounded. He doesn’t pull his hand away right away. He just stands there for a moment, letting it settle, letting it exist.
Zahir’s touch shifts almost imperceptibly, gentler now, more deliberate, like he’s aware of exactly how much weight that simple truth carried. His thumb brushes lightly against Robert’s hand before he lets it go, not withdrawing completely, just giving him space without stepping away. And when Robert finally exhales, it’s steadier. Easier.
The rest of the night unfolds differently after that. Robert stops hovering at the edges of things, stops second-guessing where he stands or how he’s being perceived. Instead, he lets himself fall into it fully, into the rhythm of the house, into the warmth of the people around him.
He ends up back on the floor with Parisa at some point, crouched beside her again as they play with her toys, Mecha Man making another appearance as she narrates an entirely new adventure with unwavering enthusiasm. Robert plays along without hesitation now, his laughter coming easier, more natural, his earlier disbelief replaced with something softer, something that lingers quietly beneath the surface.
Across the room, Laleh ropes him into conversation, sharp and teasing and endlessly entertained by him, and this time he keeps up by matching her tone, letting the banter settle into something easy, something that feels less like being tested and more like being included.
Farzana appears more than once, placing food into his hands or onto a plate in front of him, and this time, he doesn’t protest. He just accepts it, nodding in quiet thanks, the gesture simple but meaningful in a way that doesn’t go unnoticed.
And at one point, unexpectedly, he finds himself seated across from Daoud, a deck of cards between them. The game starts without much explanation, the rules implied more than stated, and Robert picks it up quickly, falling into the rhythm of it with quiet focus. When he wins, there’s a brief pause, a flicker of surprise crossing Daoud’s face before it settles into subtle approval.
Robert smiles, just slightly.
The party winds down slowly, the house finally settling after hours of laughter, music, and chaos. Outside, the night has fully claimed the sky; stars flicker faintly, quiet and watchful, and the crisp air carries the lingering warmth of the gathering inside. Inside, voices have softened, footsteps slowed, and the sounds of children running, adults chatting, and dishes being cleared begin to fade.
Parisa is the last to release herself from the night’s excitement, suddenly appearing in Robert’s arms with all the force of a small hurricane. She hugs him tightly, burying her face in his chest, and for a moment Robert can feel nothing but the intensity of it—the small hands clinging to him, the heat of her tiny body, the certainty in her voice when she murmurs, “You’re my favorite uncle.”
Robert freezes. Inside, he’s completely wrecked: heart hammering, thoughts tangling, chest tight in a way he isn’t used to allowing. He exhales slowly, almost helplessly, holding her just as firmly in return.
Meanwhile, Zahir’s voice cuts in from the other side of the living room, loud and teasing. “I thought I was your favorite?”
Parisa’s head pops up, eyes wide and full of mischief.
“You’re both my favorite!” she squeals, gleeful and unflinching, as Zahir scoops her up into his arms.
He gently roughhouses her, spinning her just enough to make her squeal in delight without letting go of her. Robert watches quietly, chest finally loosening ever so slightly with the warmth of the moment.
Eventually, it’s time to leave. Robert steps outside into the calm of the night, the cool air brushing against his face, grounding him in the quiet after so much noise. Zahir falls into step beside him, the two of them moving side by side, their presence near each other steady but unhurried.
Robert breaks the silence first, voice low, softer than he’s spoken in hours. “You didn’t tell me I was someone your family looked up to.”
Zahir glances at him, a flicker of understanding in his eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting faintly. “I didn’t need to,” he says simply, the words carrying more weight than they seem to, unhurried and confident.
A pause stretches between them, the quiet night around them stretching and folding into itself. Then Zahir’s voice softens further, just above a whisper, deliberate. “You’re already enough.”
Robert exhales, chest loosening further, and doesn’t argue. He doesn’t need to. Something settles in him, grounding, quieting the chaos inside that’s been building for hours. Zahir shifts slightly closer, warm and intentional, and Robert leans in without hesitation, letting the contact linger just long enough to feel the quiet strength behind it. Fingers brush lightly, shoulders shift, and the world narrows down to just this: warmth, trust, presence.
Robert’s voice comes next, barely above a breath, fragile in the best way. “…Can I start calling you Zahir?”
Zahir pauses, the smallest flicker of surprise crossing his features before it’s replaced by a smile so wide and bright that Robert swears it could rival the sun itself. Without a word, he leans down, closing the distance between them, and presses a gentle kiss to Robert’s lips.
“Whatever you’d like, Azizam,” he murmurs against him, soft, certain, and entirely theirs.
For a moment, Robert simply closes his eyes and lets it be. The night stretches around them, still and endless, and finally, for the first time, he feels completely at home.